


of cigarettes and steeples

by VerdantMoth



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boys Being Idiots, Boys In Love, Canon Disabled Character, Churches, Cigarettes, Dogs, First Kiss, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Platonic Relationships, Underage Drinking, idk poor coping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 19:24:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19910932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: Recently returned war hero Bucky is smoking cigarettes in the bathroom of the church Steve drags him to and giving recently-turned-legal Clint Barton a fresh new wave of complexes he hasn’t experienced since he was 14 and Buckyleft.





	of cigarettes and steeples

Church ain’t really Clint’s thing, but it makes his Ma happy and it’s an excuse to beg off work in the factory at least one morning a week. Give his muscles a bit of a new ache, sitting against the wooden benches. 

It’s boring in Indiana, in the summer. Hot, humid, and just  _ boring.  _ Which is why when Clint exits the small stall of the bathroom and sees recently returned war hero James Buchanan Barnes smoking a cigarette, leaning against the sink, recently-turned-legal Clint Barton finds himself struggling with a fresh new wave of complexes he hasn’t experienced since he was 14 and Bucky left waiting in this very bathroom.

He stumbles past, flips the faucet handle and tries to focus on the ice cold water and not the smell of menthol and tobacco and sweat. 

“When you shippin’ out?” 

Clint startles, hard, bangs his knuckles against the metal and watches blood swell between two fingers. He cuts his eyes at James, at the cigarette caught between false fingers. 

“Pastor is gonna get real pissed he catches you in here with that,” Clint answers instead. 

James turns towards him, long hair falling out of its band and grins sly and cruel, “Kid, I think the whoopin’ Steve would give me is worse than anything Pastor Strange could do.”

Clint flushes, feels it curl up from his chest, and he scrubs his hands harder, watching the blood slow. He  _ hates  _ that James still calls him kid. Hates more the tingling under his skin.

“You never did answer my question,” James says out of the corner of his mouth. And Clint feels his blush darken.

He tugs his blond hair over his ears and grumbles, “I ain’t.”

James eyes him, really looks at him and snuffs his half finished cigarette in the sink. “Now that don’t make a lick of sense. You’ve always been a bit of a sharp shooter, even if it was with a stick and string.”

Clint shrugs and hates himself for the beet red he knows he is. 

James leans in real close, swats at the hair Clint had moved. “It’s for the best, really. War ain’t no place for a boy.”

There’s just enough quiet murmur to his voice that Clint doesn’t think the comment was entirely for him, but he still bats James’ hand away. “Fuck off, Barnes. And stop calling me ‘kid’ ‘n shit.”

James leans back with a shrug, eyeing the wasted Nicotine. Before he can answer, the door swings open. 

Clint turns whip-cord fast, guilt swirling in his gut though he doesn’t know why. Sam walks in, eyes the two of them standing close, and narrows his dark eyes. “Your mama is lookin’ for you, Clint. Last prayer is about to start.” 

Sam cuts his eyes at James. “Steve’s lookin’ for you too, Bucky,” he puffs himself up as big as he can, “I’d wash the smell of smoke off you before you see him though.” Clint knows that gleam in Sam’s eyes and he scowls, pushes his friend out the door.

“Aw, hell, Sam. Don’t you go stirring things up right before you leave again!” Clint keeps pushing. “I hate cleaning up after you.”

He and Sam tussle the whole way back to the wooden bench, ignoring the shushes as they slam into the seat. 

—

Clint exhales slowly, watches the arrow fly into the eggplants Sam strung up. “When you leavin’?” 

Sam squares his shoulder and blows through three tomatoes before he answers. “Clint, just ‘cause you keep asking don’t mean August 1st ain’t coming any different.”

Clint scowls at him, knocks another arrow and lets it fly. He misses by a wide mark and slings his bow to the ground, kicking into the dust. 

He doesn’t hear the whistle, but Sam’s head turns and he follows the cutting gaze. James leans against a fence post, smirking. “See why they cut you out, Barton,” he calls. He’s got another damn cigarette hanging out of his mouth that makes Clint’s belly feel twisty and he kicks the dirt harder. 

Sam though, Sam squares his shoulders and puffs his chest up like he isn’t freshly 19 and a good two inches shorter than Barnes. Clint shoves him in the shoulder then lifts a finger at James. Sam asks, “Where’s your leash pup? Surprised they let you outta your cage alone.” 

James narrows his eyes and pushes himself off the wood post.

“Careful little bird, or I might have to clip your wings,” James says. He doesn’t say it nice or gentle. There’s something dark and cruel in his voice, something that scares Clint as much as it excites him, because he thinks,  _ he’s serious. _

He shivers, despite the heat and the sweat poolin down his spine. “Alright, alright. Both of you just take a minute and calm down. No need gettin’ in a pissin’ contest.” 

It doesn’t stop Wilson or Barnes from stalking forward and sizing each other up. Clint throws his hands up, and suddenly, August can’t come fast enough. 

He feels shitty as soon as he has the thought.

“Seriously though Barnes, where’s your moral ball and chain. Ain’t you got somethin’ better to do than bug a couple of teens enjoying their last free summer?” It’s Sam’s last free summer, but Barnes doesn’t have to know that. 

Small towns though, have a way of keeping no secrets and James turns that dead gaze on Clint. “Now, we both know that ain’t true, Mr. Barton. And I know you hear the preacher say lyin’ is a sin.” 

Clint ruffles this time, and he picks his bow up off the ground just to have something to do with his hands. “Fuck off Barnes. Ain’t you got some meeting to go to?” 

Clint can’t hear a lot of things, but he knows silence isn’t supposed to ring this way. Sam steps back, puts his hand on Clint’s chest and shoves him back a little. “C’mon man, you got some kinda death wish or something?” 

“Or somethin’” Clint snarls, watching James leave. He walks stiff, an angry cut to his shoulder that Clint almost recognizes. “Or something,” he sighs again, because James always did make him feel all twisty inside.

—

Church becomes Clint’s personal hell. He can’t hide in the bathroom because James follows him in there, just to smoke, and Steve and Sam make it their mission to sit between Clint and James, arms crossed and heads forward. Anytime Clint so much as  _ thinks _ of doing anything but listening, Sam elbows him in the ribs. 

His ma thinks it’s adorable how serious they’ve all gotten about the preaching, but Clint mostly wonders how many more bruises before Sam cracks a damn rib. 

But August is looming and he’s getting nervous because everyone knows that Sam is about to ship out for the first time, and that Steve Rogers is leaving again. And Clint’s shithole of a home town ain’t not big city, but it’s suddenly beginning to feel too small for him and James without some kind of buffer between them. 

He and Sam are out on Sam’s roof, a bottle of gin between them, watching the stars twinkle. “Why, Clint? Why are you doing this to yourself again?” 

Clint kicks against the shingles, fingers Greek Pitch into his bow lazily. “Not doin’ anything to myself.”

Sam knocks his knee into Clint’s and grimaces as he swallows. “Yeah, you are. And I won’t be here this time to pick up the shattered pieces of you when Barnes trots off with who ever the fuck he trots off with.”

Clint snaps the string, on accident, and says, “Shut the fuck up.” 

Sam snorts at him, “Classy.” 

They sit in silence for a bit, listening to the cicadas. “It’s different now,” Clint finally says.

Sam lays back, head pillowed in his arms. “How? And don’t bullshit me with that ‘I’m older and wiser’ shit cause neither of us really know anything yet.” 

Clint shakes his head. “No, it’s not-” he goes quiet for a moment, trying to order his thoughts. “I aint the same dumb shit who thought he could make the older boy like him,” Clint finally says. 

Sam rolls his head to stare at Clint. “Aren’t you though? Chasing after him like some dumb pup looking for a bone?” 

Clint stares at him. “I do not.” 

Sam leans up enough to choke down another sip of gin then shrugs. “Clint, either you’re still pining after Barnes, you’ve developed a fetish for the smell of menthol, or you got some real issues down there you need a doctor for.” 

Clint rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say I didn't like him, Sam. I said wasn’t dumb enough to think he was ever going to return the favor.” 

Sam goes real quiet, for so long that Clint has to glance over and make sure he hasn’t somehow flown off the roof. “That’s just it, Clint. I think you could reel him in. But I don’t think you should.” 

Clint sits up a little straight, watching his friend. “You can’t say something like that and then not expand.” 

Sam snorts. “Same shit. Either he’s got some real bladder problems or he’s holed up in the bathroom waiting on you to come scuffling in like a lost boy.”

Clitn chews on that information for a long time, passing the bottle back and forth with Sam. “Do you remember, right before he and Steve left the first time?”

Sam nods, “Yeah.”

“We were 14 and you were stayin’ at my place and we snuck out to the river.” 

“Barnes and Rogers were there, cutting up and just, trying to pretend they weren’t terrified. And I said we should leave.”

“I didn’t want to though, ‘cause Barnes looked so good in the glow of the fire,” Clint sighs. 

“He looked terrified and you thought you could somehow cheer up the guy who shoved you into every surface he could ever finds,” Sam retorts. 

Clint shrugs, “Tomato, tamato. Point is, that night I decided it didn’t matter what happened or how I felt, I was over Barnes.” He turns and looks at Sam. “He’s a pretty face, for sure, but you don’t have to worry ‘bout me Sam. Not while you’re over there. You’re gonna have much bigger things to be focused on and I need you payin’ attention to the skies and not worryin’ ‘bout the kid you left in Indiana.” 

Sam smiles at him, something soft and a little tragic. “Military lost out, refusing you just ‘cause of a little tinnitus.” 

Clint laughs, and they finish the gin and don’t talk about anything else. 

—

The goodbye is a lot smaller than Clint expected, what with Rogers leaving too and all, but Clint thinks Sam and Steve are honestly pretty okay with it. He stays back, letting Mrs. Wilson cry all over her son’s shoulder and pretend she isn’t leaning against the wall. 

Barnes is next to him, flesh hand shaking and menthol hanging out of his mouth. There’s a twitch about him. Not a nervous one, not a sad one. One that says he wants to be leaving too. 

Clint gets that, even if he hates it.

Barnes holds his shiny hand out to Clint and even though he’s never actually smoked before, Clint takes it and inhales. 

He coughs at the burning flavor pouring down his throat, choking and spluttering and trying not to make a scene. 

Barnes snorts. “God, Barton. Always trying to be bigger than your britches just to impress me.” 

Clint’s eyes are watering and he’s still holding the cigarette and he glances at the farewell crowd, relieved to see they’re still payin’ him no mind. When he can finally breathe again he says, “Wasn’t about impressing you, jackass. I just… needed something to distract me.” 

He looks at James, and sees blue eyes soften which makes him inexplicably angry. 

James says, “He’ll come home. The good ones always do.” 

Clint eyes the mangled flesh peeping through the tank James is wearing and says, “Yeah. Maybe, but they don’t always come home the same. They don’t always come home  _ whole _ .” 

James looks taken aback by that, and he frowns at Clint. He looks like he wants to say something, but Steve is tugging at his shoulder, tugging him into the revelry. 

Clint should join. He should go and hug Sam and make a joke and tell him shit like “Come back” or whatever. 

But James’ arm is gleaming and Steve looks a little lost not to be bringing him along and Sam’s all tense the way he gets when he pretends he’s not about to cry and Clint? Clint  _ can’t. _

So he leaves.

—

Later, hours after the bus has left, Clint is out at the lake. Only this time there’s no bonfire, no Sam, no stolen beer that tastes like piss. He does have a really nice bottle of whiskey that Sam left him, and a pack of menthols he doesn’t know how to smoke but he’s gonna figure out before the night ends. 

Barnes finds him there and deftly takes the whiskey with his shiny fingers. He doesn’t say anything; instead he takes a long swallow that makes Clint’s chest burn the way his must be. 

They trade the bottle back and forth, and if Clint closes his eyes it’s Sam’s warm hand and not the cold metal of the prosthetic passing it back. 

“How long is Sam going to gone?” 

Clint narrows his eyes. “How long will Steve?” 

James eyes him, annoyed. “Too long.” 

“Yeah, exactly,” Clint bites. 

James sighs and flops back into the mud, throwing his fleshy arm over his eyes. “God, this sucks.” 

“No shit,” Clint says. He stands up, snatching the bottle, and stalks vaguely towards the left. “Christ, Barnes. I get you’re kinda struggling not fuckin’ off after your boyfriend but my best friend just left and I really kinda want to get drunk and not deal with it yet and you?” He stalks around, liquid spilling from the bottle, “You make my life real fuckin’ difficult.” He pauses, ‘cause that's not where he wanted that tirade to end up, but it did and he’s here now and he doesn’t really know what to do so he sticks a cigarette into his mouth, chewing the butt of it lazily. 

He hears movement behind him, and when he turns around James is there, lighter flicking. “Suck into your mouth, then pull it into your lungs.” 

Clint does, and it still burns, but not nearly as bad. 

“How do you do it?” James asks. 

“Do what?”

“How do you cope when they leave and you’re stuck here?” 

Clint eyes him warily. “Hey, Barnes. You know it’s the first time Wilson’s deployed.” 

James stares at him hard and for half a second Clint is fourteen again, hiding in the bathroom of the bus station, waiting on some nameless thing that doesn’t come. 

“You’ve said goodbye to a couple of folks, Clint. Done it a few times,” James tugs at the blond hair falling into Clint’s eyes. 

“Spend the first few days drunk and then keep busy,” Clint grunts, batting his hand away. 

—

Clint does just that. He spends the next several days drunk and repairing his bow and shooting leaves in the woods. 

And then he starts classes at the local college and he gets a job teaching tumbling at the rec center and mostly, he just avoids Barnes who is suddenly  _ everywhere. _

James stays drunk though, and grows a scruff that honestly makes Clint itchy and the smell of menthol lingers everywhere. 

Clint is exiting the rec center and Barnes is there, hair tied back and lying on the sidewalk, metal arm over his eyes. Clint makes every point to kick him, hard, in the side as he moves by. “Stop freaking out the kids I’m teaching,” he pauses, sniffing the air, and adds, “and take a goddamn shower, Jesus Christ. I know they taught you how to do that in the army.”

Barnes grabs his ankle. “You’ve been skipping out on the preaching.” 

Clint tries to step on his fingers, but all he manages is stumbling a little, “Get a life.” 

Barnes sighes, heavy, and says, “I had one.” 

Clint wants to walk away. Like, really wants to, so much he even manages to get a whole five steps before he says, “C’mon then.” 

James is up in an instant following him. Clint eyes him warily. “Barnes. You okay?” 

James shrugs, and doesn’t say a fucking thing all the way back to Clint’s house. He lets himself in like he owns the place and marches straight for the shower. Clint sighs. “The hell is my life?”

James comes out wrapped in a towel and flops onto Clint’s bed. “Steve’s gone for 9 months, minimum,” he says without preamble. 

Clint doesn’t answer that. He throws a shirt at James and a pair of sweats. James doesn’t take them. 

Clint stares up at the ceiling, muttering prayers. “Please, man, put the clothes on.” 

“Why’d you like me?” James asks, ignoring the request.

“What?” Clint grunts. 

“When you were a runt and I was shoving you into things, why’d you like me?”

“I didn’t,” Clint snarls. “Get dressed and go home.” He storms out of his own bedroom.

—

James  _ doesn’t _ go home. He sets up in Clint’s home because Clint’s mom is  _ nice _ and James is  _ sad _ and what even is his life anymore?

James makes it a point to always be in his space and it’s doing really horrible things to Clint’s anatomy. But he made a promise to himself and a promise to Sam and James Buchanan Barnes isn’t going to make him renege on that, no matter how much he’s making Clint  _ want _ things he can’t have and shouldn’t ache for. 

“You did,” James tells him one morning over breakfast. 

Clint chokes on his coffee because it’s too early and he has to go to math class and “Huh?”

“You used to worship the ground I walked on,” James says casually. “Is it the arm?” He waves his metal fingers. “I mean, I get it if it is. It usually is.”

Clint slams his coffee cup down. “Oh, my god. James! I was 14 and figuring shit out. And you were a walking wet dream in leather with just enough rebel in you not to be Steve fucking Rogers the most choirest choir boy to ever open his mouth. But you were also a fucking asshole and you left, and you never even said goodbye.”

And that’s, Clint blinks. He hadn’t even known he wanted that. “You said, ‘Bathroom in 15’ and I waited for  _ hours. _ ”

James eyes soften, Clint can see his frankly obscene red lips turn down. “You were 14, and I was a few days shy of 17, Clint. Can’t you see how that might’ve been an issue?” 

“You could’ve said goodbye,” Clint sniffs. “I wasn’t expecting rose petals and shit. Just, ‘bye, kid’.”

They’re quiet for a long time, and then Clint stands up, grabbing random things. “I have to go. I have class. You really aughta go to your fucking meetings and get a job or a life or something. Stop fucking with me.” 

—

James takes some of his advice. He gets a job. 

At the rec center, teaching self-defense. He cuts his hair and keeps the scruff and he doesn’t quite hover in Clint’s space, but all the girls in his tumbling class sigh over him. “He looks like a kicked puppy. What did you do?”

Clint blinks at Kate who’s literally only here to keep her out of her mom’s hair. “What makes you think I did shit?”

Kate shrugs. “Had to be you. You’re literally the only one Mr. Bucky hangs around.”

And that… can’t be true. “Lies,” he says. 

Kate gives him her trademark Very Unimpressed look, “He goes to church and sits on y’all’s pew all alone and sneaks off to the bathroom like the church ain’t small enough to smell the smoke and he got the only slot teaching classes that’s the same time as yours.”

She does a  _ standing backflip _ just to show off, and then says, “Also he lives with you. You should take him to a shelter and get a dog with him and stop beating him up for whatever he did before shit happened.”

“You think I can beat Barnes up?” Clint asks, preening. 

Kate snorts. “Metaphorically. Like, figuratively, or whichever it is. Not with your first. Even one armed Mr. Barnes could knock you cold.”

And, okay, whatever. “I’ll take him to the shelter and he can get a dog.” 

—

He does. 

On a rainy Sunday when James is moping around in Clint’s bed, he drags him to a shelter four hours out of town. They argue the whole way over music and snacks and by the time they get to the shelter Clint is reconsidering every choice he has ever made in his life and also  _ dogs _ .

There are so many and they stink and they’re  _ loud _ .

But James is cooing over all of them and he looks happy in a way Clint hasn’t seen since the first time Barnes came back from a tour. 

The sight makes something in him break, something he didn’t even know was there. 

“This one,” James says. He’s picked out a really ugly dog. Like, really ugly with a mangled ear and a missing eye and fur so matted Clint doesn’t even want it in the bed of the truck. “His name is Pizza.”

“Why.” Clint demands. 

James shrugs. “Feels right,” he finally glances at Clint and his eyes crinkle in the worst way. “You hate him.”

Clint shakes his head. “I just think maybe you want a dog that’s…” 

James’ whole face goes hard. “Something not broken? Is that what you want, Clint? Is that why you’re avoiding me so much?” 

Clint throws his head up in a silent, “Aw, hell” and slumps to the ground. Pizza immediately licks at his face, “Not everything is about your arm, James.” 

“Why don’t you ever call me Bucky?” 

“Way to side track the conversation.” 

“Everyone else calls me Bucky. And you used to. But you don’t anymore.” James pets Pizza, and Clint knows they’re going to take him home. 

“You ever have a conversation that doesn’t start in the middle and work in circles with me?” He asks James exhausted. 

“You ever gonna answer any of my questions?” And alright, fair.

“It’s weird, okay? I was in love with you for a long time. Or, I thought I was. And you were always stuck with Steve and I was the runt you shoved around. And then you came home this war hero with a steel arm and you were  _ everywhere _ and I’d literally only just gotten over you.” He doesn’t know what else to say. 

“Can we at least see if someone will bathe Pizza before we get him home? My mom, nice as she is, won’t let that much mud into the house.” James looks at him like… like Clint hung stars in the sky or some shit so he adds, “And stop making everything about your arm, James. You aren’t the only one broken.” 

—

They do find a pet shop willing to clean Pizza and Clint begrudgingly admits he’s almost cute all cleaned up. James sweet talks letting Pizza ride on the floor at his feet and Clint is stuck listening to folk tunes while James sings along, surprisingly well. 

“You ever heard that thing about pulling pigtails?” James asks suddenly. 

“The fuck?” Clint asks, confused and tired and cranky. All because of James, and not really about Pizza or the question. 

“You didn’t have pigtails at 14. You had this stupid, blond, skater shag going on, but I couldn’t pull that, could I? So I shoved you into things. But it was weird. ‘Cause you were this pimply-faced kid who hadn’t even dropped voice, and I was about to go off to,” James’ voice cracks. “It wasn’t, and I couldn’t, and I wasn’t going to be Steve okay? I was absolutely not going to ask you to hang around waiting on me. Not at that age. I was going to go to the bathroom and say goodbye, I was.” James’ fingers shake in Pizza’s fur. 

“I didn’t even understand love, and you didn’t want me pining,” Clint finally sorts. 

James shrugs. “And then I came back and you hated me and I had nothing to offer anymore, anyhow.”

“I didn’t hate you,” Clint corrects. “I was just trying to move on.” 

“Did you?” 

Clint waves a vague hand at James in the passanger seat of his truck, with a fucking dog.

He glances over, just in time to see James bury a smile in Pizza’s fur.

—

Clint makes his way back to church around Christmas because his mom’s all teary and he  _ finally _ got a letter from Sam and it  _ hurts _ . 

Bucky must’ve gotten one from Steve because he and Pizza disappear for a few days and come back  _ reeking _ of menthols and sweat. 

“Sam okay?” He asks Clint. 

“Is Steve?” Clint fires back. He feels guilty immediately after. 

“He wants to be home for Christmas, but he won’t be,” Clint says. “It’ll be weird, not getting together with him after lunch.”

“How do you cope?”

“Usually? With Sam,” Clint admits. “This is the first time I’ve had to do it without him.”

Bucky reaches for his hand, and they walk towards the back pew. “I’ve never had to do it without Steve at my side, either,” he whispers. 

Clint ducks his head, hiding his smile. The sermon goes on, winding and twisting and full of precisely vague commandments. 

Bucky tugs at Clint’s hand. “Meet me in the bathroom in five minutes okay?”

Clint eyes him warily, thinking about the last time Bucky asked him to do that. 

“Trust me,” Bucky says, slipping out of the seat.

—

It takes Clint almost 15 minutes to work up the courage to follow him. And mostly it's because Kate is giving him The Look and pointing to the vents where the smell of menthol floats out. He makes his way towards the back hallway, the little bathroom with three stalls and the faucets that chose their own temperature. 

Bucky is leaning against the counter, hands shaking as he smokes. He doesn’t look up. “Thought you might stand me up.” 

Clint doesn’t say anything, taking in the trembling, the obscene red lips, the scruff. 

“Would’ve been fair, all things considered.”

Clint throws his head back and plucks the cigarette from metal fingers, snuffing it in the sink. He tugs Bucky forward, smashing their lips together in a terrible first kiss. All clacking teeth and menthol and tears, except he doesn’t know who’s.

“Sam is going to be so fucking pissed when he gets back,” Clint whispers into the scruff. 

Bucky laughs, loud and cracking. “Steve isn’t gonna be thrilled either.”

He presses his lips to Clint’s, finds the right angle and Clint’s only a teensy bit jealous it’s clear he’s practiced because this kiss? Makes his whole damn body tingle. 

“Don’t ever kiss Pizza before you kiss me, Barnes. You got that?” 

Bucky leans back and narrows his eyes. “Is that really the only rule you’re gonna make for this thing between us?”

Clint shrugs. “I’m sure I’ll come up with more,” before he kisses him back, hard and learning quickly. 


End file.
